THE BALLANT O MORDECAI

 

Oh hae ye nae heard o Haman the fause,
Or o Mordecai the true;
Though the king wad honour Haman the fause,
Mordecai wadna boo.

Than Haman proclaimit, Thon chiel’s a Jew:
If he winna boo tae me
Nae him alane but a his fowk
As shair’s I leeve shall dee.

Sae the Jews a wept, an the Jews a wailed;
Mordecai rendit his claes;
Till the queen heard o’it, an speirt at him
The caas o a his waes.

Fer the queen wis o Mordecai’s freens
Whilk Haman didna ken;
Fer the God a haivin hid aa in His haunds,
An He’s wyser far nor men.

Noo if ye went afore the king
An he wis pleasit wi ye
He’s haud oot his gowden staffie tae ye:
If he didna, ye waud dee.

Aiblins, quo the queen, the king’ll haud oot
His gowden staffie tae me;
Aiblins he’ll no, sae fast fer me,
An if I dee, I dee.

Trumlin she stood afore the king:
He held his staffie oot!
Fer God Himsel hid gaen afore
An skailit ony doubt.

Sae she axed the king an Haman tae dine,
An Haman wis unco prood;
No aince but twice he got the invite,
Though it did the sorra nae good.

But aar at time hid cam ae nicht
The king he couldna sleep
Sae they read till him frae the record beuk
That aa guid kingdom’s keep.

It tellt hoo Mordecai the Jew
Hid saivit the monarch’s heid;
But they fund at naethin guid wis deen
Tae thank fer his guid deed.
Sae the king, he askit Haman as syne
As Haman cam intil sicht:
Whit sall be deen until the chiel
In wham the king his delicht?

Noo Haman thocht wad the king delicht
In ony forbye mysel?
Gie him, quoth he, yer ane claes tae weir
An yer steid tae ride as well.

Noo dae it, Haman, tae Mordecai
An cry afore him richt:
Thus sall be deen until the chiel
In wham the king his delicht.

Sae Haman hid to lead the hoarse
An tell o the king’s guid fame;
An ochone, carked Haman, ochone is me
Whan he gat back till his dame.

Fer he’d askit o Mordecai his dame
Whit she thocht at he suld dee;
An she tellt him to bigg a hangrell
At wis fifty cubits hie.

Syne he cam with the king until Esther’s feast
An thon wis a graun soiree;
Sae the king speirt at her, sin he wis sae blithe,
Whit d’ye wish fer me tae dee?

My fowk, the Jows, and yer queen, masel,
Are sellit till a wickit fae man;
And the bangster wha’d kill us a if he could
Is nane but thon wickit Haman.

Thar a hangrell fifty cubit hie,
Ledged ane, near Haman’s hoose.
Hing him hie upo it, bade the king;
Mak siccar fause Haman’s noose.

He pit his signet ring on the haun
O Mordecai the true;
An he went oot frae him weirin a croon
An cled in whicht and blue.

The Jews wha newlins hid aa been sad
Noo shooted lood wi glee;
Fer God hid warked ahin it aa
As He wull ayeweys dee.                                                                                     

31/05/2025

A little excursion into using the Scots language, the form being like a border ballad.  

More of Inchcolm Island, including the view from the priory ruins towards Edinburgh.